


Rubric Moments

by IamShadow21, kath_ballantyne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camping, Challenge: flist_a_fest, Crack, Dragons, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Everybody Lives, F/M, Forests, Fred Lives, Full Moon, Harry Is Not A Horcrux, Harry Likes Weasleys, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Humor, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Underage, Past Underage Sex, Puzzles, Remus Lupin Lives, Sex Magic, Snape Lives, Tonks Lives, Twincest, Werewolf Biology, Werewolves, alternate book 7, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-12
Updated: 2008-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/pseuds/kath_ballantyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a HBP compliant story that involves camping, wanking, a touch of voyeurism, and a hint of twincest. But then don't all the best 'hunting for <strike>Horcruxes</strike> Horcruces' tales? If you ever get miserable because JKR killed all your favourite secondary characters in DH, come read this and cheer yourself up. Writing it was how I coped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silver, Blood and Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> For flist_a_fest, Prompt - Red.
> 
> Okay, this was supposed to be a smutty little crack ficlet no longer than a page or two. Instead, it ate my life for a week and turned into a 15,000+ word monster. But it's COMPLETE, which means those of you who are allergic to WIPs can read with confidence, knowing that I'm going to keep posting chapters until it's all up.
> 
> A warning: Although this can gel with canon up until the end of book six, it is NOT compliant with book seven. What exactly does that mean? Well, apart from non-canon pairings, as is probably to be expected, it means, among other things, no Hallows, Harry is not a Horcrux, and far, far fewer people die. However, just to screw with you, the Trio still spend the War in a tent.
> 
> Oh, and my use of the word 'horcruces' is deliberate, and in homage to 's incredible tale [Cartographer's Craft](http://sam-storyteller.livejournal.com/tag/cartographer%27s+craft). I am not worthy, I merely adore from afar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry sees red.

Harry’s love life had gotten off to a rather slow start. That whole ‘Voldemort trying to kill him’ thing really outweighed the ‘Boy Who Lived’ draw card. While others around him were off finding themselves dates in the Fourth Year, he was left behind. 

Well, except for Ron. 

Steady, dependable Ron, who wouldn’t notice that Hermione was nuts about him unless she cracked, stripped naked and threw herself at him. And that’s assuming he’d had his morning cup of tea first.

The only people who ended up asking him were people he didn’t know or didn’t like, and the only people he _wanted_ to go with were going with other people. In the end, he’d asked Parvati Patil out of desperation, and resigned himself to being the only person at the Ball who really didn’t give a fig about the whole thing.

For a couple of years, Harry had mooned over Cho Chang. She was pretty and sweet, with an androgynous build and long, silky black hair, and she knew Quidditch. What more could a boy ask for? It would have been better if she wasn’t all hung up on Cedric Diggory, but frankly, with the way Cedric looked in his Quidditch gear, he could understand the sentiment.

She did go and get all boring and girly about it though. She wanted frills and she cried far too much, and frankly, by the end, he was glad to see the back of her. She didn’t fly a broom anywhere near as well as Cedric, anyway.

Then, Harry had an epiphany of epic proportions. 

Harry saw red.

Not in the sense that he was furious about something. Oh no, this was far more encompassing than that, and far more insidious.

Slowly, so slowly he didn’t even notice until the damage was done, red had turned from an occasional idle thought to an all-important and inextricable requirement of every fantasy, asleep or awake. Red was the blood that pounded through his veins, and red was the colour he pounded to at night. And quite frequently in the Quidditch Sheds after practice, and the Prefects Bathroom. 

And that one time in an alcove behind a suit of armour, under his Invisibility Cloak, when he couldn’t get to the Bathroom in time.

During his sixth year at Hogwarts, he liked to tell himself that it was Ginny that caught his attention when he was younger, and it had wired him to think that way. That it had been predestined or something that they’d get together and this irresistible force had been drawing them ever closer since the early years of school. 

But in all honesty, he hadn’t noticed Ginny as anything except Ron’s little sister until she grew quite nice tits and started wearing her skirts short and dating half the boys in the school.

And in reality, it was getting to know Fred and George a lot better in his Fifth Year that made little Harry stand up and take notice first.

Well, what else were they supposed to do while everyone else was off playing Quidditch? Harry and the twins were used to a certain level of physical activity, the Room of Requirement was free, and the twins _were_ very grateful for the capital he’d given them to start up the business. 

And Harry was pretty sure Fred and George got up to that sort of thing on their own, anyway. They were _very_ closely bonded, and they did make a point of insisting that they tested all of their products on themselves first. Harry presumed that included the aphrodisiacs, love potions and cosmetics, but he was careful not to ask. When they could use their tongues with that level of skill, well, you couldn’t say much of anything, anyway.

But yes, Ginny. 

Harry watched, and Harry seethed, and Harry wanked so much he was sure he could see the difference in muscle tone between his left and right arms while Ginny dated Dean.

And then Ginny was dating _him_ and they were _just_ getting to an interesting stage of heavy petting when Dumbledore died, the world went to shit, and he ended up living in a tent for the foreseeable future. 

So Harry taught himself to wank with the other hand, because he was sure his right forearm was starting to look conspicuously bulgy. And if he listened to Ron jerking off and panted rather loudly himself while he did it...well, that was just two mates helping each other out. He was pretty sure Ron was starting to realise about Hermione, as living in a tent with her left nothing to the imagination.

Between the three of them, they had decided they were going to hunt down all the Horcruces. Well, Harry had decided he was going to, destroying Voldemort being his destiny and all. Ron and Hermione had put their feet down and told him they were coming along, whether he liked it or not, and before he knew it, they were in a tent together, and Ron and he were both sneaking peeks rather guiltily while Hermione undressed, and wanking in tandem at night once they thought she had fallen asleep.

***

Mundungus Fletcher’s predictably insatiable kleptomania regarding everything that wasn’t nailed down (and probably a lot of things that were) meant that finding the first Horcrux hadn’t been that difficult. They broke into Borgin and Burkes one night and retrieved Slytherin’s Locket. To their surprise (and relief) the shop’s security was rather minimal. Perhaps the reputation of the proprietors was enough to keep all but the incredibly foolish thieves at bay.

Hermione, with the assistance of Remus Lupin, quickly worked out a plan of action regarding its disposal. 

“Silver is corrosive to werewolves,” Hermione explained. “There’s a chemical unique to their physiology that reacts with it. That’s why it burns them – it attacks the proteins like a strong acid or alkaline would. And though you can’t see it usually, that corrosion goes both ways.”

“What she means is, the thing in werewolves that makes us vulnerable to silver damages silver in return,” Remus clarified, kindly. “And while transformed, or immediately prior to my transformation, the levels of that chemical in my body will be extremely high. It may damage the Locket enough to make the Horcrux unstable and fail to contain the soul fragment.”

It was all very scientific, and Harry and Ron smiled and nodded a lot and agreed because it was safest, and admitting they didn’t understand would have made them look like idiots.

***

The next Full Moon, they stayed with Remus and Tonks. Remus locked himself in the cage in the cellar, transformed at moonrise, and the four of them stunned the crap out of him. Then Tonks put him in a Full Body Bind for good measure before going into the cage alone, slicing a deep cut in the werewolf’s arm, or rather, foreleg, and draining a pint of his blood into a bowl. She Healed and cleaned the slash before leaving.

“He’ll smell the blood and attack himself, otherwise,” she explained, with a slightly strained smile.

They traipsed outside with the blood and the locket while the revived Remus howled from the cellar behind them. Under the light of the moon, Hermione heated the blood gently in a cauldron, then dropped the Locket in and stepped back. 

For a while, nothing happened. Then the blood bubbled up as if on a high boil, and there was a brilliant flash, and a piercing scream. The cauldron cracked and the blood, now a thick black ooze, splashed down, dousing the flame. Poking through the wreckage with a handy stick, they found the Locket, half-melted and twisted out of shape. The chain had dissolved completely.

“Wicked,” breathed Tonks.

“You’re brilliant,” Ron murmured to Hermione.

“Incredible,” Harry agreed.

“Basic chemistry,” Hermione dismissed, with a flap of her hand, but they could tell she was pleased.

***

Hermione finally snapped and threw herself at Ron after a couple of months on the Horcrux hunt. She wasn’t naked, but Ron had had his morning cup of tea and her tongue in his mouth seemed to clue him in. So now, Harry wanked to the sound of them shagging every night, sometimes looking at Ginny’s name on the Marauder’s Map while he did it. After all, he just knew she was waiting for him. 


	2. Water, Women and Woad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hufflepuff's Cup requires an unusual method of destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Marion Zimmer Bradley, may she rest in peace. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Never fear, the porn *is* coming. Just not yet.
> 
> This chapter contains probably my favourite Harry image I have ever written.

Hufflepuff’s Cup was hidden at the bottom of the Lake at Hogwarts, behind a hollow stone in the outer wall of the Slytherin dormitories. Finding it was miserable work, since Gillyweed was awful stuff to use at the best of times, and it was winter, so they had to crack the ice every time they went down. Even with Warming Charms cast on their clothing, they would emerge shivering and frostbitten after every attempt. Madam Pomfrey despaired of their numb white fingers and toes, mumbling under her breath as she dosed them with a potion that left them with horrid, painful tingling in the affected extremities.

Harry was depressed for other reasons too. He’d been naively expecting a happy and devoted Ginny to pounce on him as soon as he appeared at the school, only to discover that she’d latched on to Seamus Finnegan after only a month.

“You broke up with me!” Ginny reminded him. 

“Didn’t wait long, did you?” Harry muttered resentfully.

“I _did_ write you a letter,” she said, as though that excused her unforgivably taking him at his word. Didn’t she know he was being all noble and self-sacrificing? And now he had a Dear John letter waiting for him, probably at the Burrow, since their tent had Misdirection spells all over it to repel just about everybody and everything, including mail owls.

***

Oddly enough, the key to the Cup’s destruction came from Luna.

They were kind of stumped. They couldn’t use Remus’ blood again, because the Cup was gold, not silver. Basilisk fangs were out of the question, since after the mess in their second year, Dumbledore had locked the entry to the Chamber with a matrix of Charms that would have taken them years to unravel. So, a whole week after the Cup had been retrieved from its watery hiding place, the three of them were sitting in the Library, scouring books from the Restricted Section on Dark Objects.

Luna had drifted over, in her usual, absent manner, and asked what we were doing. At that point, they were so tired and had exhausted so many avenues of research that telling Luna actually made a kind of bizarre sense.

“Why don’t you just put it back in water?” she asked, clearly confused at what all the fuss was about.

“It’s just been _in_ water for half a century, and it’s still evil,” Harry pointed out, rather peevishly. He’d been trying to understand a dusty book for half an hour, even though it was in Ancient Greek, and he’d had to watch Seamus and Ginny snogging at breakfast.

“Not the Lake,” she said, as if that should be obvious. “The Lake’s not magical.”

Hermione blinked, as though a light had been switched on somewhere in her brain. Luna wandered off again.

“The wrong section!” Hermione said, pushing back her chair violently, and almost _running_ to the shelf with volumes on Historical Magical Settlements and Groups.

That was how they ended up at Glastonbury, negotiating with the High Priestess of a Coven; specifically, the Coven that tended and protected Chalice Well.

The Well had been used to purify Dark Objects like Horcruces before, but using it for such a purpose would desecrate it. A rededication would take time and resources, and the Daughters of the Well had to come to a unanimous agreement before Harry would be permitted to attempt the Cup’s destruction.

In the end, the payment they asked for was...well, not _unpleasant_ , but a little embarrassing. Because the nullification of the Cup represented part of his “Quest”, Harry would be required to play a role in the ritual preparing the Well. 

Basically, what is boiled down to was that he had to shag one of their ‘maiden initiates’, outdoors on the Tor, with a crowd of women dancing around and singing while he did it. Daunting, to say the least. Especially considering that Ron and Hermione had been invited to watch the ceremony and Hermione had agreed for the both of them, because she thought it would be rude to refuse.

Fortunately, early on in the evening (after the painting with woad, before the shagging) Harry was given a cup of mead to drink which was apparently laced with an aphrodisiac and something mildly hallucinogenic. As a result, he was more than happy to dance naked around their fire (which shimmered and sparkled with rainbows) and enthusiastically deflower their Maiden, who was, to Harry’s delight, a redhead. Maybe she was a Weasley cousin. The magical community in Britain wasn’t huge, after all.

Just as he was drifting pleasantly in his post-coital glow, the High Priestess (who reminded him rather frighteningly of Professor McGonagall) tugged him to his feet and down the road that curled in a spiral down to the Well.

The Cup stood on a short pedestal at the Well’s edge.

“It is yours to destroy,” she told him gravely. “This is your Quest.”

Two dedicates removed the cover and stood either side the Well, chanting in Gaelic, as he lowered the Cup on a rope into the sacred Spring.

A great column of steam rushed up and into the sky, as though the Horcrux was red hot. The women’s singing increased in volume, their hands and faces raised to the moon, which was high overhead. A thin, anguished cry was heard to issue from the depths, and after a minute more, the High Priestess announced, “It is done.”

The Cup was obviously warped and misshapen when he drew it up. The Daughters quickly untied it from the rope (the coils of which were stained orange-ish red due to the water's naturally heavy iron content) and wrapped it in silk.

“You will have to take it with you when you leave us,” the High Priestess declared. “Although it is purified, its complete destruction is your task alone.”

“Yeah, sure, great,” Harry agreed absently, while wondering to himself if the feisty no-longer-a-Maiden would be up for another go. He was rather disappointed when he felt his knees give way in exhaustion, and the High Priestess levitated him back to the guests’ lodgings on the edge of the community.

***

The next day, Harry was weak as a kitten, grumpy and very foggy about the night before. However, Hermione told him the Horcrux had been destroyed, so he supposed things must have gone well enough.

He bade farewell to the gathered Daughters in a daze. The wrapped Cup was handed to Ron by one woman. Another young dedicate with red hair who looked vaguely familiar took both Harry’s hands in hers and kissed his cheek.

“My son will be named Meilyr, to honour you,” she murmured with a smile.

“Er...thanks,” Harry said, baffled, before he was whisked on to say goodbye to the next person in line.

The High Priestess assured him, as Hermione had, that the Cup was now no longer a Horcrux. The rededication of the Well would be held at the next Solstice, when the unicorns would be grazing close to the Tor.

“You are welcome to participate, of course,” she offered, warmly.

Several of the younger Maidens giggled and whispered to each other, looking Harry up and down rather hungrily.

“Er...quite busy, right now. The whole Quest thing, you know,” he stammered.

“Very well,” she accepted. 

The Maidens appeared crestfallen.


	3. Tombs, Turbulence and Trickery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frictions build within the Trio over the Ravenclaw Horcrux.

For a week or so, Harry tried asking the others about what happened at the Ritual, but in the end, he gave it up as a lost cause. Whenever he raised the topic, Hermione started to stammer and tried to change the subject, and Ron would blush to the tips of his ears and refuse to meet his eyes.

As it was, they were all busy looking for Ravenclaw’s thingumy, whatever that was, so there wasn’t much time for sulking and worrying about what he’d done at Glastonbury. A solid month of research led them to Ynys Môn – Anglesey.

“It’s also known as _Ynys Dywyll_ ; the Dark Isle,” Hermione explained, smugly.

Harry sighed inwardly at what was shaping up to being yet another history lesson. Ron, because he and Hermione had shagged only two hours earlier, smiled at her rather soppily. Harry resisted the urge to vomit.

“It’s not Dark of itself, of course,” she continued happily. “The ancient school of learning here taught Light and Dark spells, right alongside each other. The Elders claimed that knowledge of both was necessary for full understanding of the nature of magic. Of course, after the Romans invaded in the first century BCE, the magical population was greatly reduced. Now it’s mainly a repository with a handful of caretakers, and the rest of the island is Muggle. I think Tom Riddle probably came here at some point, most likely to research the Dark tomes they have in the Library. It’s the largest collection of Magical books in the British Isles.” Hermione looked almost orgasmic at the prospect.

***

After two weeks exploring the Library (which Harry felt sure was a week longer than Hermione would really have needed, had she not been so dazed by the sight of so many words in one place) they ended up at Bryn Celli Ddu. 

“It’s here,” Harry said, detecting the magical trace he’d been looking for at the foot of the standing stone in the tomb.

Carefully, they dispersed the illusion and Harry pulled out a wooden box from the newly visible square hole in the floor. The box looked seamless. That is, there weren’t any hinges, and there was no obvious means of opening it, despite the fact that it was clearly constructed from multiple pieces and was too light to be solid. Rowena Ravenclaw’s eagle crest spread across the top of the box, illustrated in a flawless inlay of woods of a variety of colours.

“That’s it?” Hermione asked, looking slightly let down.

“Yeah,” said Harry. He could feel the Dark magic; though it was muted, somehow, as if the true Horcrux wasn’t the box itself, but something that rested inside it.

“Wicked!” Ron exclaimed, his eyes glowing. “It’s a puzzle box!”

“I knew that,” Hermione insisted in an irritated tone that suggested she hadn’t known at all.

“Can I try and open it?” he asked, with a slight hint of longing. “I’ve always wanted a puzzle box, but the ones they sold in Diagon Alley were really expensive.”

“No,” Hermione snapped. “It might be dangerous. We’ll take it to Bill, first.”

Bill went over every inch of the wooden box.

“I’m pretty certain it’s safe,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck to release some of the tension that had built up there. He’d spent almost fifteen hours testing the box with every spell in his extensive repertoire. A hasty Curse Breaker quickly became a late Curse Breaker. It paid to be patient and methodical. You got to keep all your limbs. “There’s definitely a Dark object inside, but the box itself seems to be just that – a box.”

“Well, let’s break it open then!” Hermione said cheerfully, drawing her wand.

Ron looked horrified.

“I said it was safe,” Bill said mildly. “I didn’t say it was non-Magical. It’s got to be opened – by hand – or you’ll never get inside it.”

“But...” Hermione trailed off. 

“Strong anti-tampering charms they put on these things,” Bill said, patting the puzzle box almost affectionately. “After all, where’s the fun if you can just wave your wand and solve it? It’d be cheating.”

Hermione looked gobsmacked and angry. Ron looked like he’d just been handed tickets to a Quidditch final featuring the Cannons and a basketful of Chocolate Frogs, all with rare cards inside. Harry was just relieved the box wasn’t cursed, and was mildly unsettled at the stirring he felt when Bill shot him a cheeky grin. He idly wondered if that long red hair was as soft as it looked, and decided he’d been too long without sex.

***

When they left Bill’s, Hermione sulked, in the way she tended to sulk. She refused to allow Ron or Harry to attempt the puzzle box, and insisted they do yet more study to try to crack the Anti-Cheating Charms. They found very little to help them, since puzzle box creators tended to be an eccentric lot, very jealous of their secrets, and only passed on the intricacies of their trade to a chosen apprentice before their death. As a result, there was virtually nothing written about how the boxes were constructed, besides that it was ‘a grate secret’ and ‘moste mysterious’. 

After another week of dust, documents and stubborn Hermione, Harry was seriously annoyed, and by this point, even Ron was fed up with books. Because Hermione was in a foul mood, he’d been getting virtually no sex, and the puzzle box was calling him with a Siren’s song. 

Finally, in a fit of desperation, Harry and Ron conspired and performed a very devious bit of trickery worthy of a couple of Slytherins. It was Harry’s turn for dinner duty, so he dosed Hermione’s meal with Sleeping Draught from the medikit. They tucked a blanket over her, left a note apologising (which carefully avoided telling her where they’d gone) and Apparated to Wheezes in Diagon Alley. The twins welcomed them with open arms and hearty congratulations, and mocked their guilty countenances.

***

It took them seven hours and over five hundred movements (or ‘steps’) before the box chimed and unfurled like a flower on Ron’s flattened palms. Ron, who’d done most of the work (although the twins had occasionally made helpful suggestions) glowed with pride, and they all bent down to see what was inside.

“It’s an astrolabe,” George breathed, bending closer but not touching it.

The circular disk, the _mater_ , with its _rete_ , runes and rule, was delicate and intricate in its construction. The exquisite detail reduced the four of them to a state of silent wonder for a long moment.

“It’s beautiful,” Fred said earnestly.

“Shame to destroy it,” George added, his voice heavy with regret.

But destroyed it must be. All four of them could feel the evil that rolled like waves of heat from the object. 

Yet again, the Horcrux wasn’t one that could be destroyed with Remus’ blood. The astrolabe was brass. And the Daughters of the Well had politely made it clear that even with the help of the unicorns Chalice Well would not be up to deactivating another Dark object as powerful as a Horcrux for several years at least. It was a difficult conundrum.

“Why not fire?” Fred suggested, with a little too much enthusiasm.

“It does tend to destroy most things,” George agreed amiably.

“Too simple,” Harry sighed. “They can’t be destroyed by regular means. Ginny dumped the diary in water, and it didn’t damage it one bit, and it was made of paper and ink.”

“Dragon fire’s not regular,” Fred insisted, a shining light of certainty in his eyes.

“Burns much hotter than regular fire,” said George.

“And dragons are magical creatures,” Fred elaborated. “There must be something special about their flame.”

“Unless you’ve got a Phoenix handy, which I know you don’t, they’re your best shot,” George insisted firmly.

“And I know for a fact that Charlie would be happy to put you up at the Reserve for a few days,” Fred concluded.

“How the hell would we get to Romania?” asked Ron, who was the first to find his voice.

Fred and George exchanged a glance that suggested a wordless decision was being made between them.

“Er...we may have an International Portkey handy,” George began slowly.

“Strictly between us, you understand,” Fred confided.

“Don’t tell me – it fell of the back of a broom,” Harry said dryly.

“Something like that,” George agreed.

“And you’re _sure_ it’ll get us to the Reservation?” Harry asked sceptically.

“Of course!” Fred said, his eyebrows raising indignantly.

“The Portkey Charm’s already on it,” George explained, “but it’s a blank. All it needs is the destination programmed in, and that’s simple enough.”

“Charlie was pretty good at Charms, too,” Fred added. “If we write out instructions, he should be able to reprogram it once you’re done, and it’ll bring you right back home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might be curious, the astrolabe is an astronomical instrument, developed over two thousand years ago in Ancient Greece. The astrolabe in the picture, which I used for inspiration, was created by [Georg Hartmann](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georg_Hartmann) in the sixteenth century. It is part of Yale's collection.


	4. Comfort, Confessions and Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is stressed. Hermione is not amused. Ron is assertive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who like to think Hermione can do no wrong might want to close their eyes, stick their fingers in their ears and hum to themselves for the latter half of this chapter. Please, no flaming.

Ron and Harry stayed the night at the flat. The twins offered toothbrushes, blankets and the use of their living room floor, and they gratefully accepted. It was three in the morning, and all of them were exhausted. Harry doubted he’d be able to Apparate without splinching himself.

Ron was stretched out and snoring by the time Harry got back from the bathroom.

“You seem tense,” said a purring voice from an armchair in a shadowed corner.

Harry recognised George by the tilt of his head and a particular quirk of his lips.

Harry ran a hand through his rumpled hair and shrugged. “Can’t imagine why.”

George laughed softly. “Come here,” he said, patting his lap. 

Harry glanced nervously at Ron. 

“He won’t wake,” George reassured him. “Ronnie could sleep through a hurricane; especially tonight. He put a lot of energy into solving that puzzle.” 

Harry walked across and straddled George’s thighs, allowing the older man to hold him close. He rested his cheek on George’s shoulder with his lips pressed against his neck, and sighed deeply.

“That bad, eh?” George asked.

“Pretty much,” Harry confirmed. “Where’s Fred?”

“Bed,” George answered, his hands drifting slowly over Harry’s back.

“He...he won’t mind?” Harry asked, tentatively. He felt George tense a little then relax.

“No,” George whispered, laying a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “No, he knows where I am.”

When George’s hands slid down to cup Harry’s arse, Harry lifted his head and captured George’s lips in a kiss. It felt so right, so good, Harry thought, to be held like this. To feel George’s hands sliding across his skin, George’s tongue tangling with his own.

After long minutes, they broke apart and looked at each other. Harry noted George’s glassy, unfocussed gaze, his lips swollen and crimson with kisses, his red hair mussed from where Harry’s fingers had threaded and woven themselves in amongst the silky strands. As Harry leaned forward, planting quick kisses down George’s bristly jaw line, he heard him murmur a protective charm and set his wand aside. Then he felt George unzipping both their trousers, and a hand was offered to his lips. Harry sat back held George’s gaze as he licked the palm, long and slow, and sucked on each of those fingers suggestively. George moaned, reached down between their bodies, grasped both their cocks with that beautiful hand, and began to stroke. 

Harry gasped and bit his lip hard, gripping George’s shoulders tightly. _Too much_ and _oh so good_ was all he could think. It wasn’t long before his hips began to thrust of their own accord. He could hear himself panting and the little whimpers that were escaping despite his best efforts to be silent. George was quietly grunting with every stroke, and Harry could feel the heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

Harry threw his head back as the pace abruptly increased. His body was bucking wildly, and he was resting heavily against George’s hand in the middle of his back. Almost...almost...

Suddenly, Harry felt his balls tighten almost painfully. He drew a sharp breath, and George pressed him forward to swallow his cry when he came with a shocking intensity. As Harry trembled through the aftershocks, he felt George’s hand, slick and wet, pumping them both frantically, until he stiffened and groaned deeply, kissing Harry fiercely and clumsily as his body jerked and spasmed.

“Been a while?” George asked, with a breathless chuckle a short while later.

“Too long,” Harry mumbled. “And bloody Ron’n’Hermione shagging like bunnies.”

“Can’t they use a Privacy Charm?” George asked, gently trailing his fingers up and down Harry’s back, as Harry rested on his chest.

“They do,” Harry confessed. “They just haven’t realised that it doesn’t work properly on the bunk beds. If they shag in Ron’s bunk, on the bottom...”

“...you can hear it up in the top, I get it,” George said, with an audible smirk. “And you haven’t let them know.”

It wasn’t a question, but Harry answered it anyway. “Well, no.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” George said. “I’d imagine it makes pretty good wanking material.”

Harry shrugged.

“And of course, you get the added benefit of being able to listen to Ron moaning in your ear while you come, without ever having to work up the courage to tell him you fancy him,” George added calmly.

Harry froze. He actually stopped breathing until the ache in his chest alerted him he needed air.

“Hey, shhh, calm down,” George crooned, stroking his back and pulling him closer.

“I...I don’t...” Harry stammered.

“Don’t be stupid,” George gently admonished. “Of course you do. Just imagine what it would have been like if it’d been him here, underneath you, stroking your cock just now.”

Harry felt an overwhelming rush of arousal at the idea; Ron’s hands, Ron’s lips, Ron groaning into his mouth as he came. Harry’s soft cock perked up, and he let out a little whimper.

“See?” George said, smoothing Harry’s hair back from his brow. “Now, you should try and rest. You’ll need it, if Hermione’s half as pissed off tomorrow as I think she’ll be.”

Harry let out a despairing moan. George chuckled quietly, flicked his wand and cleaned them both up. 

Harry burrowed down into his blankets, feeling like he should be laughing hysterically or sobbing, but he was far too tired to do either. George bent down, pressed a kiss on his cheek and wished him goodnight. The last thing he heard before sleep overtook him was the twins’ bedroom door clicking shut.

***

Hermione was just as angry as predicted. She lashed out at Ron, in particular, brushing aside the fact that he’d solved the puzzle box and that they’d found a potential method of disposal for the Horcrux. She seethed with rage because she was still convinced her way had been the best, and was furious that Ron, who’d been pretty much falling in line with her ideas since they hooked up, had acted independently.

Ron was indignant, hurt, and boiling mad that Hermione was taking her frustration out on him. He couldn’t understand how she could be so pigheaded about her own theory, while completely disregarding the impracticality of it. The argument had been going on for nearly half an hour, and neither was backing down.

“If you’d have just been more _patient-_ ”

“ _More patient?_ Wizards have been trying to crack puzzle boxes for _centuries!_ You think that just because you’re full of yourself you’d have figured it out in time? You didn’t even know what it _was_ until I told you!”

“- reckless and arrogant. You could have been cursed, or-”

“Bill said it was clean _weeks_ ago! The only reason you wanted to do it _your_ way was because you couldn’t deal with me being better at something than you when it really mattered!”

There was a sudden silence.

“That’s not true,” Hermione said, unconvincingly.

“Isn’t it?” Ron asked, with an unpleasant smile. “Because the way it’s starting to look, the only reason I figure you keep me around is that you like having someone stupid beside you, because that makes you look clever.”

Hermione shook her head violently.

“And the only thing I can think of that could make you this angry is that you just can’t cope with the fact that _I_ was right, and that _I_ solved it. Not you. _Me_.” Ron’s voice was quiet and controlled, edged with venom.

“I’m angry because you drugged me!” Hermione shouted. “I’m angry because you played with a box that you knew _nothing_ about, just because you wanted to, rather than being _sensible_ and doing a bit of research! I can’t _believe_ that you could be that-” She stopped.

“Stupid?” Ron asked, raising his eyebrow. 

Hermione looked at her feet, face flushed.

“Well then,” Ron said, picking up his backpack. “Harry and I are going to Romania. Come, or stay here and sulk. I don’t much care which.” He Disapparated with a pop.

Hermione turned to Harry. “How can he _possibly_ say-?”

“I think he’s right,” Harry said, cutting off her protestation, hardening his heart when she flinched. “Are you coming or not?” he asked, shouldering his bag.

Hermione shook her head. He turned on the spot and Disapparated, arriving at the twins’ flat within moments.

When he appeared, Ron glanced up hopefully. Harry could see that some of Ron’s fury had left him; that putting Hermione in her place had lanced a wound that had been festering for a long time, possibly years. 

Harry just shook his head to let him know she wasn’t coming. Ron looked crushed and miserable. An outsider could have easily been forgiven for thinking that this heartbroken boy was a completely different person to the man who had just coolly walked out on a woman who wouldn’t swallow her pride and admit she’d been wrong.


	5. Sickness, Strategy and Snuggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romania, and a series of surprises.

Portkeying directly to the edge of the Dragon Reservation in the Carpathian Mountains turned out to be a Big Mistake. They had been there barely two minutes before Ron’s long limbs folded up and he fainted in a little heap. Harry’s head hurt, he felt horribly sick, and he seemed unable to catch his breath. When his legs started trembling, he lay down on the grass with his head on Ron’s hip, gasping like a landed fish and wishing the ground would stop spinning.

“Bloody idiots,” Charlie declared, when he turned up five minutes after Harry’s Patronus message. “Why didn’t you walk up from the village, or stay at the way station for the night? You should have known you’d get ill, going straight from practically sea level to six thousand feet.”

“FrednGeorge...set the...Portkey...” Harry mumbled, wondering why Charlie’s face was so blurry, and why he seemed to have far too many noses. Ron stirred underneath him, moaning and retching.

“Well, they’re idiots too,” Charlie snapped, running his wand over the two of them and tutting in a manner very like his mother. “I’d send them a Howler if I had an owl.”

“Y’dun have an owl?” Harry asked, trying to hold onto a thread of coherence.

“Nope,” Charlie said, with what might have been a smile, if only Harry could focus enough to make it out. “Dragons think owls are flying, feathered, tasty snacks. All our mail goes to the village. One of us Floos through every morning to pick it up.”

“Gotta go see th’ draag’ns,” Harry mumbled. He attempted to stand up, but for some reason his legs didn’t seem to be working.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Charlie said, placing a strong hand in the centre of Harry’s chest, holding him down easily.

“’s _important_ ,” Harry insisted, though right at that moment he couldn’t quite remember why. He fumbled with Charlie’s fingers, but they were made of iron wrapped in leather, and he couldn’t brush them off.

“It can wait,” Charlie said firmly. “Right now, the only place you’re going is the Hospital.”

Harry drifted in and out of consciousness while Charlie conjured stretchers, levitated Harry and Ron onto them, and charmed them to follow close behind him as he strolled up the mountain.

“Nadia!” he bellowed, when they finally came to a stop. “I’ve brought you fresh blood!”

Harry groggily raised his head to see a slender, dark-haired woman with startlingly pale skin and ice blue eyes peering down at him.

“’re you a vampire, then?” he asked, unable to break her gaze.

“No,” she replied.

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry said, before leaning over the side of the stretcher and vomiting on her shoes.

“You owe me, Veasley,” she muttered, grimacing. Charlie shot her a winning smile. Nadia just shook her head, Scourgified her shoes, and stomped back inside, the stretchers following after her like ponies on a string.

***

Harry and Ron were in the tiny Reserve Hospital for almost two days. Nadia, despite the clear differences in age and nationality, seemed to be Madam Pomfrey’s long-lost twin, at least in her manner of brisk efficiency. Unlike Madam Pomfrey, she muttered to herself in Romanian (which was occasionally sprinkled with the name ‘Veasley’ and oddly inflected English profanities) while she worked. In the end, she discharged them with a handful of potion bottles after teaching them both a modified Bubblehead Charm. She told them they should use it if they had trouble breathing or felt confused, dizzy or weak.

“If you do not,” she warned, “I shall know. You shall end up flat on your back, vhich vill bring you here, or over the mountain side, vhich vill end you messily. Be smarter than Veasley,” she said, nodding in Charlie’s direction, her mouth set in a disapproving line. “He vos under my feet for veeks.”

“She likes you,” Harry commented shrewdly to Charlie, once Nadia had shut her door firmly in their faces.

Charlie roared with laughter and slapped Harry on the back so hard he stumbled forward a step. However, a bright twinkle in his eye suggested he wasn’t displeased with the prospect.

To Harry’s relief, the first time he had to cast the Charm, no one even spared him a second glance. If they stopped to look or talk, it was because he and Ron were strangers in a very small community, and Ron was very obviously related to Charlie. Everyone, it seemed, knew about Charlie’s large family and his score of younger siblings. Ron was peppered with questions about what he’d be taking for his NEWTs if or when he returned to school, whether he wanted to work with dragons like his brother, whether he was hoping to play Quidditch professionally. After the unpleasantness of the altitude sickness and the split with Hermione, Ron basked in the sudden attention with an air of surprised pleasure. 

Harry revelled in the reverse of fortune that made _Ron_ the celebrity and himself just ‘the best friend’. It wasn’t that the dragon keepers didn’t know about Voldemort or the threat he posed. It was just that the baby brother of ‘their’ Weasley was much more tangible and approachable to them than ‘The Chosen One’.

***

“Just how are we going to do this?” Harry asked, later that evening. Charlie had shown them the dragon enclosure from a discreet distance of half a mile away, downwind. Even then, Harry had backed up a few paces when two Romanian Longhorns began butting heads in a half-hearted territorial display. “Are we even sure it’s going to work? I mean, it’s a lot of risk if it doesn’t.”

“Oh, it’ll work,” Charlie said, with an air of certainty so eerily reminiscent of the twins it was uncanny. “Everything around here is layered so thickly in flame retardant charms they make your teeth buzz, and they’re still no match for a direct, close-range bout of dragon fire.”

“But how do we even get close enough without getting toasted?” asked Ron, rather nervously.

“The same way we do most of the work around here,” Charlie answered. “A lure. Dragons are big, but they aren’t really that intelligent. Most of the breeds we’ve got will fall for a simple lure, time and time again, without learning it’s a trap. We set up an illusion, splash some animal blood around, and hide.”

“So we just wait for a dragon to come down and take a look?” Harry asked, intrigued.

“We can make the lure specific to the creature we want to work with,” Charlie elaborated. “For example, we could tailor it to be irresistible to Gwen, one of our Welsh Green females, while Ianto, our Welsh Green male, could stroll right past it and wouldn’t even notice it was there.”

“Brilliant!” Ron enthused.

“I think a Swedish Shortsnout is the way to go,” Charlie continued. “They’ve got a highly concentrated stream of fire that’s above and beyond the other breeds. We’ve got a particularly volatile male, Muspell, who should be perfect for what we have in mind.”

***

That night, Harry and Ron shared a thick pallet on the living room floor of Charlie’s cabin. Much to Harry’s amusement, the makeshift bed was heaped with thick, densely furred animal pelts of a variety of colours and textures.

“Very medieval, I know,” Charlie conceded, “but when the fire dies down, you’ll be grateful for them. It gets very cold at night in this corner of the world, especially in spring.”

An hour later, Harry grudgingly admitted to himself that Charlie was right. He could see his breath puffing in the air in front of him in the dim light cast by the glowing coals, and his nose was numb, but the skins were snug; almost hot, really. However, despite his relative comfort, he just couldn’t seem to relax, even with Ron’s reassuring, droning snore. The idea of messing with dragons, even with Charlie’s experienced help, was nerve-wracking. And what if they were wrong and it _didn’t_ work? They would be left with the problem of finding another method of destruction, and all the while, Voldemort was getting stronger...

Ron made a grumbling noise in his sleep, rolled over, and cuddled up to Harry, settling again with a contented sigh, and suddenly dragons, Horcruces and Voldemort seemed the least of Harry’s worries. Ron’s head was pillowed on Harry’s shoulder, Ron’s arm was flung across Harry’s stomach, and one of Ron’s legs was hooked across Harry’s own, preventing escape. 

If he hadn’t been fully awake before, he _certainly_ was now. Every bit of him. 

With a sigh, Harry realised that even if his favourite hand hadn’t been pinned to his side by Ron’s body and starting to go slightly numb, wanking while his friend was draped across him like a ginger coloured rug was a bit pervy, even for him.

Harry resigned himself to his fate, and the high likelihood of waking up with unpleasantly crusty pyjama trousers in the morning.


	6. Concealment, Charms and Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie helps Ron in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this time. This is sort of a bridging chapter, so I'm sorry if it feels like not much happens. A lot of it is dialogue. Theoretically, I suppose it could be cut and the story would still flow and make sense, but I think for Ron's character development it's important. Also, Charlie on his 'out in the field' high = LOVE.

Walking through dragon territory, even while Disillusioned and with a charm cast on him to hide his scent, was an incredibly terrifying experience. Harry ducked every time one of the enormous creatures flew overhead, and clung to the rope that joined him to Charlie and Ron with a white-knuckled grip.

Once they arrived at the chosen location - a clearing surrounded by burnt and broken trees that stank of smoke and sulphur - Charlie cast a Misdirection spell and cancelled the Disillusionments so that they could see to work.

“Come on, then, Ronnie! Let’s see what you’re made of,” he challenged, with a slightly manic grin that reinforced his strong resemblance to Fred and George. Charlie winked cheekily at Harry, and Harry couldn’t help but smile back.

He watched on as Charlie talked Ron through each step of setting the lure. Though initially hesitant, by the end Ron’s wand was moving in graceful, complex patterns and his voice was firm and confident as he spoke the final incantation.

A convincing replica of a Swedish Shortsnout winked into existence. Its face was bloody, and a mutilated goat carcass lay at its feet.

“Fantastic!” Charlie chortled, slapping Ron heartily on the back. “Excellent work! You’re a dab hand at Illusions, mate.”

Ron rubbed his neck self-consciously, his ears violently pink. “Never done one before,” he confessed.

Charlie beamed with obvious pride. “There are handlers here that are old enough to be your grandparents who can’t create an Illusion that good! I thought you told me in a letter last year that you were rubbish at Charms? Tosh!”

Ron shrugged. “I’m not as good as a lot of people.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. If you go through life comparing yourself to other people, you’re always going to be miserable,” Charlie advised. “That’s what I couldn’t stand about Quidditch. Too many comparisons, too much pandering to other people’s expectations. Those scouts that tried to woo me in the last few years at Hogwarts, all they kept saying was that I could be the best, that their team would be the best in the League with me on it. What they didn’t know was that I hated that crap! I didn’t want to be the best; I just liked the game, and I’d already set my heart on dragons, years beforehand. Out here, it doesn’t matter who’s best because it’s a team effort. Everyone on the Reserve is important and has a role to play.”

Charlie finished liberally soaking the ground with blood around the illusory goat as he spoke. In the centre of the mess, Harry carefully placed the astrolabe on an upturned wooden crate. They stepped back to view their handiwork. 

“That should do it,” Charlie murmured with satisfaction, shooting Harry and Ron another slightly wild grin. “Come on, there’s a cave up there we can use as a bunker.”

He quickly Disillusioned the three of them and led them up to what was less like a cave and more like a slightly damp and smelly hole in the side of the mountain.

“Ugh,” Charlie said with disgust, still somehow managing to sound cheerful. “I think something’s started living in here since we used it last.” He cast a Lumos spell, which hung in midair since he and his wand were still disguised. Harry heard shuffling on the floor as the glow poked itself into the darker corners.

“Can’t see anything,” Charlie eventually announced. “Whatever it is has probably moved on or been eaten. And even if it hasn’t, the dried scat lying around is pretty small. Shouldn’t be anything we can’t handle, if it does show up.” 

Charlie slowly appeared as the Disillusionment Charm slid off him. “Come over here, you two. We don’t need that in here. We’re well out of the way, and he won’t be looking at us, anyway.”

Harry shuffled forward, feeling his upper arm bump up against Ron’s chest as they both touched Charlie to let him know where they were. A moment later, they were both visible again.

“Alright, then. Would you like to do the honours, Ron?” Charlie asked. “It’s your Illusion, after all.”

Ron peered down into the clearing. “I don’t know that I can hit it from this far away,” he said uncertainly.

“Sure you can,” Charlie reassured him. “Hold your wand arm out straight, from the shoulder. Now brace it with your other arm. Hand on the wand arm elbow, keeping it locked, other elbow against your chest....that’s right.” Charlie’s hands were on Ron’s shoulders, turning him, lining him up with the fuzzy patch of the clearing that was affected by the Misdirection spell. “Now, sight along your arm. Cheek on your shoulder...there. See the target?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You don’t need to flap your arm about; it’s all in the wrist. Double clockwise twirl and flick to cancel the Misdirection spell, right to left swish, left to right swish, then up to a point and firmly downwards to Animate the Illusion and activate the lure. Got it?”

“Yep.”

“Want to do a dry run without your wand first?”

Ron shook his head firmly and nestled his cheek back into his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the clearing. “I’m ready.”

Charlie gave Ron’s shoulders a squeeze then took a step back. Ron was very still for a long space of time, just breathing in and out. When he did eventually move his wand, the movements were so swift and precise that Harry nearly missed them.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a dragon winked into view and began to move, ducking its head to feed and swishing its tail like a cat.

Charlie whooped and clapped his hands together. Ron turned to beam at Harry, his eyes truly happy for the first time in what Harry realised was a long while. Harry felt his heart give a little flip flop in his chest as he smiled back. Suddenly flustered, he cleared his throat.

“So...ah...what do we do now?” he asked.

“We wait,” Charlie answered, finding a not-too-filthy piece of ground and sitting cross-legged. “We’re right in his territory. It shouldn’t take long.” 

Harry squatted down, trying very hard not to think about the musky odour that engulfed him at floor-level. Ron sat next to him, propped himself against Harry’s shoulder, and they waited.


	7. Triumph, Tickling and Touching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The destruction of the Horcrux, and how they celebrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise ahead of time for any possible inaccuracies regarding Romanian cuisine.
> 
> EDIT: Thank you to velaro from TQP who pointed out a problem with the beverage the boys were drinking. It's been fixed, now.

“It was _brilliant!_ ” Ron chortled, for about the hundredth time that evening. “All the roaring an’ the fire an’ the sparks an’ the fire an’ the _woosh!_ ” Ron’s hands came together and flew apart violently. 

Apparently all it took to unearth Ron’s Fred-like enthusiasm for fire and explosions was an exciting day involving dragons, horcruces and complex spells, a hearty evening meal that consisted of a kind of meat and vegetable stew thing called _rasol_ , and, most importantly, several after-dinner shots of a spirit called _ţuică de-a doua_ , which Charlie had informed them solemnly was essentially Romanian plum brandy with a sky-high alcohol content and a kick like a mule.

The destruction of the astrolabe couldn’t have gone more perfectly. Five minutes after the lure was activated, Muspell had arrived, shrieking and roaring with indignation at the interloper. When the strange dragon had refused to challenge him but instead kept eating what should have been his goat, Muspell became enraged and let loose with the full force of his fury. 

After a few minutes of flaming everything in the clearing down to smoking char, the intruder had simply disappeared. Muspell sniffed around for a little while, just in case some of the goat had escaped total incineration, then got bored and flew away, content that his territory was again secure.

Charlie kept them in the cave for another half an hour, as much to let the ground cool down enough to walk on as in case the dragon returned. Disillusioned again, they carefully picked their way down to the smoking patch of earth where their lure had been. The scorched ground had a strange crust on it that cracked under his shoes, and Harry realised after a few moments that the mineral rich dirt and small pebbles had been melted into a muddy kind of glass. Eventually, Charlie found a couple of discoloured blobs of metal stuck in the crust, like nuts in toffee.

“I think it worked,” he said dryly, prodding at the brass inclusions with the toe of his boot. “Want to dig it out?”

“Nah,” Ron said. “That’s well and truly gone. Harry?”

“Suits me.”

Harry, after dinner, felt delightfully floaty. His lips were numb, and he was pretty sure that Ron’s hair in the firelight was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Uh uh,” Charlie said, capping the bottle and moving it away when Ron reached for it again. “Y’ll already hate me in the mornin’. I’ll hate me in the mornin’. No more.”

Ron pouted, narrowed his eyes, and pointed an accusatory finger at his big brother. “Y’re a pussy, that’s what I say. Yep.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie asked, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Say that again.”

Ron smirked. “Miao, miao, miao,” he mocked, in a sing-song voice.

“Right,” Charlie said.

Ron jumped up to bolt, but Charlie was quicker. Harry snatched the bottle out of the way just in time to prevent its certain destruction, and watched in astonishment as Charlie tackled Ron heavily to the floor, straddled him, and began tickling him breathless.

Ron was pinned to the ground, red in the face, panting, struggling, begging...Charlie was leaning over him, holding him down...

Harry took a very large mouthful of the brandy that made his eyes water, recapped it and placed it safely on the sideboard. Then he kicked Charlie hard in the rear and climbed on his back. “Knock it off, you git!” he said, pinching Charlie’s skin and tugging on his hair.

When Charlie reached around with one hand and grabbed him, Harry only had time for a yelp of surprise before _he_ was suddenly the one on the floor with Charlie on top of him; Charlie’s thick, strong fingers finding all those wickedly ticklish places and making him struggle for oxygen between uncontrollable giggles. And Ron; _Ron_ , the bastard, was pinning his hands and looking down into his face upside down and laughing too, and if Harry had just been able to catch his breath he would have raised his head those couple of inches and kissed him, then and there.

“No more!” Harry gasped. “Please!”

“You give?” Charlie asked, teasingly. Harry nodded hard.

Charlie prodded him once more in the ribs before sliding off. Ron’s hands loosened, but he rubbed gently at the red marks he’d left on Harry’s arms before letting go completely. Harry rolled onto his side to take in deep lungfuls of air, and hide his obvious erection. If either of the other two were sober enough to notice his predicament, they had enough sensitivity left intact to not point it out.

***

Harry wasn’t quite sure how it happened.

Charlie ambled off to bed a little unsteadily. Harry and Ron set up their pallet and snuggled down under the pelts. After only a few seconds, Harry’s bladder informed him that a call of nature was compulsory before sleep.

“Back in a minute,” Harry mumbled. Ron flapped a limp hand in his direction without opening his eyes.

He _was_ only a minute. No more than two.

Harry could see Ron’s eyes glittering in the semi-dark, watching him as he climbed back into bed. Frankly, he was a little surprised. Ron had been yawning hugely and stretching for a good half hour before they’d called it a night, and he’d expected him to fall asleep almost immediately.

“You all right, mate?” Harry asked. Or tried to ask. He only got two words out before Ron pressed him flat on his back and began kissing him hard.

_Oh God...ohGodohGodohGod..._

Harry gasped, and suddenly Ron’s tongue pushed through his lips and brushed against his own. Harry moaned and gripped Ron’s shoulder, overcome. Ron obviously took this as encouragement and deepened the kiss, resting his weight on Harry’s chest and moving his hand to caress Harry’s cheek and hair.

Ron tasted strongly of potent, fiery alcohol. Harry was certain that while he was in the bathroom, Ron had taken at least one mouthful of _ţuică_ , probably more. 

_For courage_ , Harry was stunned to recognise. Ron had _planned_ it. 

Maybe not planned it long ago, but Ron had obviously been actively working towards this encounter for at least an hour because judging by his enthusiasm, it was clear that he wasn’t tired at all. 

The room was oddly silent, save for the rustling of fabric, the sharp, irregular rhythm of their breath and the wet, smacking sounds of their lips. They didn’t speak. Even the moans and whimpers that escaped from their throats were muted, as if one loud noise could break whatever spell held them. 

In contrast, the movements of their bodies were desperate. When Ron’s knee nudged insistently at the gap between his legs, Harry parted them obligingly. Within the space of a moment, Ron was on top of him fully, lying between his thighs, rocking his hips. Harry’s legs wrapped themselves around Ron, and his hands scrabbled at Ron’s back. Their breath was in synch, now, each exhalation almost violent, as if the air was being forced from their lungs by every thrust. Perhaps it was.

Harry sensed the tension in his body building to a brutal climax and it felt so good it almost _hurt_ , when Ron stopped kissing him abruptly. Ron was looking down, his eyes piercing Harry right to the core of his very soul, as his thrusting grew erratic and rapid and his breath hissed through his clenched teeth.

Harry saw The Moment, and that was what sent him over the edge. The Moment when Ron’s eyes went blank, his lids fluttered closed, and his mouth opened slackly to emit a tiny, choked cry, before his body convulsed and curled tightly around Harry’s. 

_Ron just came_ , Harry realised. _I made Ron come._

And that was it. Harry’s nerves sang and exploded. He could feel a shout beginning to grow in his chest that would surely be loud enough to bring Charlie running out, wand in hand, looking for Voldemort, or at least a couple of Death Eaters. With whatever sense remained in his head, he bit into the flesh of Ron’s shoulder to muffle the sound just as it broke from him. Ron was still rubbing against Harry, riding out the last of his orgasm, and at the feel of Harry’s teeth he gasped and thrust hard twice more, before moaning softly and going limp. Harry rocked for a few seconds longer, until he was utterly spent. 

They nuzzled for a little while, and then sleep stole over them like a shadow, swifter than either of them expected it to.


	8. Morning, Misery and Misgivings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry, Ron and Charlie feel sorry for themselves.

Harry woke in the morning to the sounds of Ron being violently sick in the toilet. Judging by the little whimpers between each spasm, he was feeling very, very sorry for himself. Harry allowed his ridiculously heavy eyelids to creak open a little, before he slammed them shut again. It felt like a bludger had hit him between the eyes. He pulled a pelt over his head.

There was the creak of a door behind him, and Charlie released a volley of creative but rather lacklustre swearing. There was a muttered charm, and Harry knew, even with his eyes shut and under an animal skin, that the room had become a much darker, much friendlier shade of gloom for his poor head. He peeped cautiously out, and decided that was enough activity for the moment, and that he deserved a rest of at least five minutes before he even _thought_ about sitting upright.

“Rooon?” Charlie said in what sounded a lot like a whine.

“Go away,” Ron mumbled between retching. “I hate you.”

“Rooon...I neeeed to piss. Reeeeally badly,” Charlie wheedled.

“Piss in the sink,” Ron muttered, spitting in a futile attempt to clear the taste of sick from his mouth.

“But it’s _my_ toilet,” Charlie complained.

“Move me, and I’ll throw up all over you,” Ron warned.

“Fine,” Charlie grouched. A moment later, Harry could hear the sound of a stream of liquid hitting porcelain, and a protracted sigh of relief.

Ron was overwhelmed by another bout of regurgitation. “I really, really hate you,” he moaned, as Charlie turned the taps on to wash his hands and flush away the urine.

“Be glad I like you,” Charlie muttered, slightly irritably, while he rummaged in the medicine cabinet. “The first week I was here, some of the other Handlers got me so drunk on the stuff I ended up in the Hospital getting my stomach pumped. It’s an initiation of sorts. They keep a tally book with a record of how many shots each new Handler manages before they fall over. Bastards. Here.”

“I can’t,” Ron whined.

“It’ll stop you throwing up. I promise. Nadia makes the best Hangover Potion I’ve ever taken. And trust me, every person in this place would be willing to crawl on their knees just to get hold of a spoonful of it after a night drinking _ţuică de-a doua_. Open up. Come on, Ronnie. _That’s_ a good boy.”

“You make me feel like I’m five,” Ron grumbled, “or a dog.”

“Stay,” said Charlie, with a hint of his usual humour. His dose of potion was obviously already kicking in.

Harry felt the pallet dip next to him. “Come on, your turn, now,” Charlie said. “Sit up.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Harry said honestly, embarrassed at how pathetic he sounded.

A hand slipped under Harry’s back and pushed him gently upright. His head gave a great swooping spin, and his stomach lurched. “Oh no...” he whimpered, his hand flying to his mouth.

“Oh dear,” Charlie said, quickly readjusting his body so that his raised knee could prop Harry up, and both of his hands were free. Harry heard the glass lip of the bottle clink against metal as Charlie hastily poured out another dose. “Open your eyes, Harry. The spoon’s right in front of you, but if you can’t see where it is, you’ll spill it.”

Harry gagged and threw up a little in his mouth. He swallowed the bile back down in disgust. “I hate you, too,” he mumbled, knowing that if Charlie wasn’t supporting him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up at all.

“I know you do,” Charlie soothed, “and once you drink this, you can beat me up, okay?”

Harry cracked his eyelids just enough to see where the spoon was, then opened his mouth and leaned forward a little to let Charlie feed him the dose.

“That’s it,” Charlie said, as Harry swallowed dutifully. Charlie lowered Harry back down gently, and pulled the pelt back up to just under Harry’s chin. “I’ve got to go check on Ron now. Just let the potion work, okay?”

Harry thought about nodding, but decided against it, and just grunted instead.

***

An hour later, they were all still very dusty. However, no one was throwing up, and Harry was sitting upright now on his own without feeling like he was in a rowboat on a choppy sea. The enormous batch of bacon and eggs Charlie was frying in his little kitchen actually smelled appetising too, rather than nauseating.

“Both my knees are one big bruise, Ron, and my back feels like someone kicked it with boots,” Charlie complained, over the crackling sounds from the frying pan. 

Harry felt a flush of guilt. He _had_ been wearing his shoes. He must have been really drunk to kick Charlie like that and not even consider he might hurt him.

“Yeah, well, what about my arse?” Ron countered, from where he was perched at the end of the pallet, close to the fire. “You pounded me so hard into the floor I won’t sit comfortably for a week!”

Harry heard an odd, choked sound escape from his throat. From the way Ron had tensed at almost exactly the same moment, he’d just remembered _something_ of last night within a second of when Harry had. Their eyes met and they both flushed violently, hastily looking away.

Charlie appeared right at that moment, levitating a large platter of eggs, bacon and buttered bread, which he set in the middle of the pallet before plonking himself down next to Harry. “Tuck in, then!” he encouraged.

Harry and Ron ate with enthusiasm, but were careful to avoid each other’s gaze throughout the meal, and indeed for the rest of the day. Things were just _too awkward_.


	9. Peasants, Presents and Payback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron visit the Village with Charlie before their return to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little slice of life chapter here. May be boring for some...I kinda got fascinated by how the Reservation would sustain itself.

They rested up for one more day before trekking down the mountain with Charlie in slow stages until they reached the village. The locals were few, but very friendly, and Charlie communicated easily with them in a mixture of Romanian, English and simple hand gestures. 

The Reservation and the village relied upon each other for survival, Charlie explained. Before conservation of Dragons began, this little town was merely a handful of sheep and goat farmers, living high to get pasture for their flocks and clustered together for protection. Dragons were by no means the worst dangers in the heights of the Carpathian Mountains, and the farmers had been a grim, rough lot, used to losing comrades and large percentages of their livestock every season.

With the establishment of the Reservation, all that had changed. 

The Dragons were restricted to controlled territories, well away from inhabited areas and pastures. Any rogue animals were reported and quickly corralled, generally before they could do any damage. And the constructors of the Reservation had set wards of protection over the village itself as a safeguard in case, for some reason, the barrier wards _did_ fail.

The result in the village was a population explosion. For the first time, the farmers felt secure bringing their families up the mountain to live. Trades people followed, and the village expanded to include shops, a blacksmith, and a genuine tavern. The rude huts were demolished and replaced with solid houses, and a school and a tiny chapel were rapidly erected to fill the needs of the growing community. 

While the Reservation provided protection to the village, the village provided the Reservation with sustenance. Food, drink, clothing, medical supplies...everything perishable or consumable came to the Handlers through the village. It was their link to the outside world, both Wizarding and Muggle, and the Handlers demonstrated their gratitude by being polite and fair traders, adapting to local customs, taking part in cultural celebrations, and turning up _en masse_ to help when a labour-heavy task such as building a house or barn arose, working along side the villagers with good cheer and without complaint. It was an active demonstration of the symbiotic relationship that had existed in frontier settlements the world over for thousands of years.

Because of the pleasant weather, many people had lined the arterial street with produce and odds and ends for sale, laid out on small tables or colourful woven blankets. Harry was surprised to see Nadia across the way, tending an ugly, jagged slash on a man’s forearm. A short queue of others waited patiently behind him; a young mother with a squalling infant, a wizened old woman, crippled and bowed with arthritis, resting heavily on a young man’s arm and a knobbly cane. Each patient was carrying something for payment; a loaf of bread, a round of cheese. One middle aged woman was struggling to hold a squawking goose.

“She’s the best Healer for hundreds of miles,” Charlie explained, when he followed Harry’s stunned gaze. “There are a couple of women in the village who are canny with herbs, and they handle most of the minor maladies and the easy births. But some who are injured or ill wait for Nadia to come to town, regardless of their own discomfort, because they trust her.”

They moved through the impromptu little market, browsing the wares. Charlie greeted everyone warmly and, in Harry’s opinion, flirted shamelessly with every woman over the age of sixteen. It soon became clear that he was buying gifts for the rest of the Weasleys that Ron and Harry could take back with them to England for him. For Bill, he bought an intricate music box inlaid with mother of pearl that reeked of magic and refused to open. 

“Don’t think it’s cursed,” Charlie sniffed, “but it’ll keep him busy for a couple of hours.”

For Molly and Arthur, he found a jar of native spices and an ivory shoehorn. He picked up a string of brightly coloured beads for Ginny, which she could wear as they were or sew onto clothing. They were Charmed with crude spells to protect the wearer and increase luck.

Ron bent over a couple of battered books on one rug, peering at the titles curiously. Both were not in English. Charlie had a quick look, and conducted a short conversation with the seller. 

“That one,” he said, pointing at the crimson one with the faded spine, “is a collection of Eastern European folk tales, traditionally told at the fireside, by grandparents to their grandchildren. And this one,” he said, pointing at the one with the stained, green cover with a bit of a smirk, “is, er, pornography. A blue novel, complete with ravishment of maidens, orgies and a rather ingenious use of root vegetables in chapter fourteen.”

Ron flushed pink. Harry leaned over and took the green book, flicking it open to a random page, before yelping and shutting it hastily. Charlie and the seller roared with laughter as Harry dropped it back onto the rug, wiping his fingers against his trousers as if the stains on the cover were wet. He hadn’t expected woodcut illustrations that _moved_.

Ron leafed through the other volume, a thoughtful look on his face. “What do you think, Harry? For Hermione?” He glanced up, and their eyes met for the first time in over a day without either flinching.

“She doesn’t read Romanian,” Harry countered.

“She’ll love it,” Ron insisted. “She’ll think translating it is most of the fun.”

Harry conceded this was probably true.

Ron patted his pockets then looked sheepishly up at his older brother. “I’ve only got British Wizarding and Muggle money,” he admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

“Let me,” Charlie said with a smile. “Don’t worry about paying me back, it’s not expensive.” He negotiated quickly in broken Romanian, and handed over a small stack of octagonal and triangular coins. To Harry and Ron’s surprise, Charlie picked up the green book as well as he turned to leave. At their shocked expressions, Charlie winked and drawled, “Well, it _does_ get very cold in Romania!” before tucking it into the inner breast pocket of his robes.

The next person was selling a selection of baked goods, from loaves of bread to pies and sweets. Charlie bought large quantities of _baclava_ and _turtă dulce_ (Romanian gingerbread), which he piled into a woven basket sold to him by a young boy who was wandering the street with half a dozen of them, approaching anyone who looked too over laden with purchases.

“One more stop,” Charlie said, halting outside the door of a moderately sized building. “Wait out here, I won’t be long.” A minute later, he re-emerged, carrying a large bottle of _ţuică de-a doua_. 

Ron went a delicate shade of green. “Never again,” he whimpered.

“For Fred and George,” Charlie said with a wicked smile. “Thought they deserved a suitable present, after that Portkey fiasco.”

Harry and Ron’s eyes met again, and it was easier than the first time. They beamed at each other with amusement and admiration of Charlie’s ingenuity. The twins, who were well known for “liking a drink as much as the next man” wouldn’t be able to resist the brandy. If Harry and Ron warned them of its potency, they would just take it as a challenge. Revenge was sweet.


	10. Artifice, Armistice and Allure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron return to England, and Hermione.

In all, they were away for a little under a week. The twins’ Portkey, reprogrammed by Charlie, dropped them in the middle of the living room in the flat above Wheezes. They’d barely got their breath back when a rumbling on the stairs heralded the imminent arrival of Fred and George.

“Ronnie!” cried Fred.

“Harry!” exclaimed George.

“Verity’s minding the till. We heard the thud and thought it must be you.”

“Well, we _hoped_ it was, anyway. It’s too early in the day for Death Eaters.”

“After all, we told them after three or before seven, no earlier-”

“-no later,” George finished. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the basket of sugary baked goods. “Are they for us?” he asked, practically salivating.

Harry and Ron spent the next hour updating the twins and detailing the destruction of the Horcrux. They also gave them the gifts for the other Weasleys, since they didn’t know when they’d next be visiting Molly, Arthur or Bill, and Ginny was still away at Hogwarts until the summer. They made Fred and George solemnly swear that they wouldn’t eat all the sweets by themselves, and that a fair portion would go to each family member, untainted by hexes, jinxes, or potions. If the twins looked a little disgruntled at the all the conditions, they perked up at the sight of the _ţuică de-a doua_.

“Wicked!” George said, tilting the bottle to watch the pale yellow alcohol slosh back and forth. “I’ve heard about this stuff!”

The advice to partake with caution was met with the expected response. Fred and George plastered on smug, identical grins.

“Unlike you, dear baby brother, we can actually handle our drink.”

“We’ve been through puberty, and everything!”

“Grew hair in unusual places-”

“-had all these new, confusing feelings-”

“-taught myself to masturbate-”

“-learned from Fred how to masturbate-”

“Oh, _ewww!_ ” Ron pronounced in revulsion.

The twins sighed nostalgically and turned mock-sympathetic gazes on their younger brother.

“You’ll go through the change one day, Ronnie, you just have to be _patient_.”

“I’m taller than you, you gits,” Ron snapped, irritated. “I hope you choke on your _baclava_.”

Fred and George looked proud. When Harry and Ron Apparated away, the twins were still laughing.

***

When they arrived outside the tent, the first thing they saw was a wand tip pointed at their faces. The second was a very bushy head of hair hurtling towards them.

“Ooof,” Harry gasped, as all the air was knocked out of him by Hermione. By the time he doubled over, she had already released him and was subjecting Ron to a similarly brutal hug.

“I was so _worried!_ ” she squealed. “Are you all right? The Horcrux, did you-”

“All destroyed,” Harry reassured her. “No more evil astrolabe.”

“Oh _Harry!_ I’m so proud of you!” Her enthusiasm was mildly hysterical, as though the tension from the last week was all gushing out at once.

“Actually, I didn’t do much of anything,” Harry said blandly, refusing to accept the praise. “Ron destroyed it. He was brilliant. Even Charlie was impressed.” Harry smiled warmly at Ron over Hermione’s head. Ron flushed bright red, and suddenly there was _tension_ there, between them, and something in his chest vibrated like a plucked string. This was not the awkwardness of a few days beforehand. Ron bit his lip and looked down at his shoes.

Hermione misread Ron’s body language, and took an uncertain step back. 

“You got it right,” she said, slightly mechanically, as though she’d rehearsed saying it over the past few days. “I was angry, and I was horrible, and I’m sorry.”

“I was right,” agreed Ron, looking up and holding her gaze steadily. “And I’m not going to say I’m sorry, because I don’t regret anything I said. But I do wish we hadn’t fought.”

There was a short, uncomfortable pause as each of them digested each other’s words.

“So, are we okay then?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Not yet,” Ron answered. “but I think we will be, eventually.”

“We’re still friends?” she asked timidly, looking back and forth between Ron and Harry.

Ron gave her a crooked smile. “Well, we didn’t buy gifts for our _enemies_ while we were away!” he said dryly, pulling out the crimson covered book.

Hermione was thrilled with it.

***

Over the next few weeks, they slipped into what on the surface appeared to be their old, easy dynamic. Harry suggested ill-conceived, suicidal solo missions to destroy Voldemort. Ron and Hermione bickered incessantly. And none of them could cook tinned baked beans over an open fire yet without them being half-done or burning most of the beans to the bottom of the saucepan.

Deeper though, things were very different. 

Hermione was no longer trying to steamroller over every idea she didn’t like in favour of her own just because she could. Ron was standing firm and defending his own opinions when he felt strongly about them. And Hermione appeared to be making a real effort to censor herself, when not that long ago, she would have belittled Ron, and often Harry too, casually and without a second thought.

Probably the most notable difference Harry observed was that Ron and Hermione weren’t having sex. They touched, and hugged, and occasionally kissed, but to Harry’s eyes, it all looked very chaste. He’d seen Ron be just as intimate with Ginny in the past, when they weren’t screaming at each other and throwing hexes.

Fortunately, the fact that Ron had stopping shagging Hermione didn’t mean Ron had stopped wanking. In fact, he seemed to be doing it more that usual, and with a kind of desperation. He’d actually started putting up Privacy Charms as soon as the lights went out, (which Harry could hear through, since he was still on the top bunk) and it wouldn’t be more than five minutes before Harry could hear the frantic, soft slapping sound of Ron’s hand on his own cock and Ron’s gasps and moans increasing in volume the closer he got to his climax.

Harry was kind of grateful for the aural stimulation. More than grateful. 

Several times a day there’d be moments when their eyes would meet, and Harry would have a lot of difficulty looking away. 

He’d also become transfixed by simple things about Ron, and found himself staring at him vacantly. 

For example, Ron’s large Keeper’s hand held his wand delicately, almost as if the length of wood was the bow of a violin. Harry half expected him to raise a pinkie when he cast a spell. Ron had more freckles on the back of his left hand than his right. Harry knew this, because one day when it was unseasonably hot, he had counted them while Ron dozed under the shade of a tree. Ron’s scars from the battle at the Department of Mysteries twisted up from his wrists to his shoulders like vines. There were thirteen thick lines on his left arm and ten on his right, and numerous finer lines that Harry would have had to get much closer to Ron to catalogue properly.

And then there was that whole mess from the night in Romania when they got drunk, which he tried not to think about, but was inevitably the thing he focussed on lately just before he came.

Part of Harry longed for the simpler times last year, when he could listen to Ron wanking and think of Ginny, because that was far less complicated. But it was increasingly obvious to Harry that he wasn’t even trying to save himself. He spent each day exchanging heated glances with Ron and watching him chew absently on his fingernails, and spent each night coming to the sound of Ron moaning as he fucked his own fist.

Harry was supposed to be focussed on stopping Voldemort. How was he supposed to do that when every day with Ron was stretching his self control to breaking point?


	11. Superfluence, Celebration and Chagrin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, what to do if you're a spare hero?

The War ended with a rather spectacular bang. Who knew it would be so easy to kill Voldemort, and that it would cost so few lives?

The big surprise for a lot of people was that Harry had nothing to do with it. Harry was probably the most shocked of anyone. He’d been conditioned since the age of eleven to be Voldemort’s nemesis, and he felt rather at a loose end.

Ron was fairly pragmatic about the whole thing. “Who knows, mate? Maybe killing all those bits of him was enough to fulfil the Prophecy. And maybe Trelawney was wrong anyway. She _is_ barking mad.”

Hermione just sniffed. She obviously felt that her opinions on Trelawney and Divination in general hardly needed to be restated.

The three of them were actually some of the last people in Wizarding Britain to know about it, which was kind of humiliating, in a way.

***

They were camping out in Brockhill Country Park in Kent (a fair hike through the undergrowth from the trails, so that the Misdirection Charms on the tent didn’t disorient any poor Muggles who walked by). Hermione had offered to take first watch, and Harry was thrilled. Ron had been sitting rather close to him while they ate dinner, and their arms had kept brushing in a way that felt almost-but-not-quite accidental. Harry wasn’t sure which of them had been doing it on purpose, or if somehow both of them had, and it had left him flushed and frustrated.

They’d both only just got into their bunks, however, when Hermione called out for them. Harry and Ron ran to the entrance of the tent with their wands out...their Ollivander wands, that is.

“Shooting stars,” Hermione explained. “Hundreds of them!”

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron snapped irritably, shifting from one foot to the other. “We though it was something _important!_ ”

“Do they look like normal shooting stars to you?” Hermione countered.

Harry and Ron looked more closely. There really were an incredible amount, and they burned for a long time before winking out, five to ten seconds at least.

“That’s no meteor shower,” Hermione pronounced, and neither of the others disagreed with her.

“They don’t look like fireworks, either,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Not even those ones that Fred and George made. Is it a spell, do you reckon?”

“I think it must be,” Hermione stated. “Something big’s going on.”

“A battle?” Harry asked, his heart thudding loudly in his ears.

“Maybe,” Hermione said, her expression grave.

“I don’t think it’s a battle,” Ron said slowly. The other two glanced at him. He was chewing on his lip, clearly thinking hard. “There is a spell to make shooting stars like this, but it’s old-fashioned. Muggle fireworks got approved for legal use by the Ministry about fifty years ago, so hardly anyone ever uses it any more. Uncle Bilius used to cast it sometimes, when I was really little.”

“So why does that make you think this isn’t a battle, Ron?” Hermione asked, gently prompting him in a way she never would have back in school.

“Because all it’s good for is fun,” Ron explained. “The reason why fireworks took so long to get popular was because the shooting star spell was so much safer, especially if you had kiddies. It took Filibuster’s family _generations_ to design fireworks that weren’t as dangerous. The shooting star spell can’t be used as a weapon like fireworks can; it’s impossible. It’s just lights; a variation on _Lumos_. I could cast one right in your face, and it wouldn’t even mess up your hair.”

“Is this one wizard, casting all this?” Harry asked, gesturing at the sky in awe. 

Ron shook his head. “Have to be at least half a dozen, maybe as many as thirty. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

As if to punctuate the situation, a firework streaked across the sky, bursting into a shower of red sparks. Rather than falling to the ground, the glittering points of light formed themselves into a shape of a phoenix, which swooped back and forth across the sky, snapping at shooting stars with its golden beak.

“Not exactly being discreet, are they?” Harry asked faintly.

“Big job for the Obliviation Squad,” Ron murmured absently.

“Come on,” said Hermione, shoving their packs at each of them and collapsing the tent with a flick of her wand. “We need to know what they’re celebrating. I think it’s time we visited the Burrow again.”

***

Molly’s excitement at seeing them for the first time in nearly a year was overwhelming. It probably didn’t help that she’d apparently had a couple of nips of _ţuică de-a doua_ , which Fred and George were working through in the living room at an alarming rate. Bill was grinning a little too much, but he confided to Harry that Charlie and he had drunk the stuff together before, and he wasn’t about to get bitten twice by the same cobra. He’d had one small glass, but now he was just enjoying watching the mayhem unfold, so that he could write to Charlie about it later.

It was all very bewildering until Hermione snatched up the _Evening Prophet_ from the table and read the headline.

“Voldemort’s dead,” she said, stunned.

“Huh?” Ron asked blankly.

“ _What?_ ” exclaimed Harry, indignantly. “But I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Apparently, Snape put the Imperius Curse on Nagini who killed Voldemort, at Snape’s bidding, in his sleep. Then Snape killed the snake with a Freezing Charm, Apparated to right outside the Ministry with both corpses and gave himself up.”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry and Ron demanded, in unison.

“The Aurors and the Wizengamot are in uproar. They have absolutely no idea what to do with him. He fully admits killing Dumbledore, but he’s also apparently killed Voldemort. Half of them want him in Azkaban, another lot want him cleared, and a whole bunch of others are agreeing with both sides. And Snape’s offered to be completely transparent, too, about Dumbledore, Voldemort and the Death Eaters. He’s agreed to questioning by a Legillimens, with Veritaserum, the works. He’s even offered to surrender memories to be viewed in a Pensieve. I think he’s doing it to drive them all mad, personally. They’re trying to find justification to lock him up for good, but they keep finding reasons for his actions that give him a legal standing. It’s going to take them months to work it all out. What a mess.”

There was a photograph on the front of the _Prophet_ of Snape sitting in the chair Harry recognised very well from his own Hearing. Though Snape’s arms were bound to the chair by the chains, he held his head high, and his familiar sardonic smile tickled the corners of his mouth. Yes, Severus Snape was enjoying causing chaos at the highest level of Wizarding Government very much.

“Oh, and Draco Malfoy’s in St Mungo’s,” Hermione added dispassionately.

“What did the little creep do? Get in the way?” Harry asked, venomously.

“Severe malnutrition, dehydration, broken bones...oh, and he’s as mad as a Hatter,” Hermione summarised coolly. “Apparently Voldemort wasn’t too impressed that he couldn’t kill Dumbledore last year. His Healer has as good as said that once he’s healthy, if he doesn’t improve, he’ll end up as Gilderoy Lockhart’s room mate.”

“Oh,” Harry said, for some reason feeling guilty, even though it was Malfoy.

“Snape dropped him off in the Emergency Ward before turning himself in,” she said, folding the paper neatly.

Deciding that the world had gone absolutely topsy-turvy, Harry collapsed into a vacant chair and moaned, enjoying it far too much when Ron rubbed his shoulder consolingly.


	12. Revelations, Restraint and Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron take a moment or two alone to discuss their relationship.

The twins had increased in volume from loud and obnoxious to piercing and obnoxious. They’d somehow convinced Hermione to have a couple of shots of _ţuică de-a doua_ , and she was very flushed and giggling at an off colour story Bill was telling about breaking the curse on a tomb during his first few months in Egypt. Arthur had just stepped out of the Floo in the kitchen and was being kissed _very_ enthusiastically by Molly.

“C’mon,” Ron said in Harry’s ear. “Let’s go upstairs. I can’t hear myself think, down here.”

Harry shivered at the caress of Ron’s breath across his skin, and nodded.

The walk up the stairs was silent, and Ron didn’t turn to face Harry until the door was shut firmly behind them. Ron’s room, though clean and dust free, smelt slightly sterile due to lack of use. It didn’t even smell of feathers, since Pig and Hedwig had been roosting downstairs with Errol, who was now so ancient he hardly ever woke except to eat, and was officially retired.

“What do you want, Harry?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry felt suddenly incredibly nervous. “I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured.

“I think you do,” Ron said simply, taking a step towards him.

“I...I don’t know...what do _you_ want?”

Ron ignored the deflection. “I think you want me,” he said with certainty, taking another step closer. The gap between them was merely inches wide now.

“H...how do you know?” Harry stammered.

Ron leaned in close, not to kiss him, but to brush his cheek against Harry’s quite deliberately as he whispered in his ear. “You said my name when you came.”

Harry frantically thought back over all the months; the drunken night at Charlie’s, the countless times they’d wanked, and he couldn’t remember ever having slipped so badly. “When?” he asked hoarsely.

“That night, on the Tor, at Glastonbury,” Ron said, pulling back enough to look Harry in the eyes. “You were fucking that little Maiden, and she was loving it, but about a minute after you pushed inside her, you looked up, right at me, and you watched me the whole rest of the time. You watched me, and when you came, you shouted my name, as though it had been me you were fucking, not her at all.”

“Oh...shit...” Harry said softly, his eyes sinking shut in despair.

“Hermione pretended it didn’t happen, of course, but she was jealous. She kept saying that you and me were so close, and that there was some bond we shared that she couldn’t compete with.” Ron shook his head. “I think that’s when things started falling apart between me and her. The fight about the puzzle box and the Horcrux was just the last straw.”

“So you’re not with Hermione?” 

“No,” Ron said, sliding his arms about Harry’s waist.

“And you’re not going to get back together with Hermione?” Harry asked, faintly.

“No,” Ron whispered huskily, kissing and nibbling his way from Harry’s ear down to his collarbone and back up again.

“I thought you were just really drunk and lonely,” Harry said, hearing his voice crack. “You couldn’t even look at me the next morning.”

Ron stopped and looked into Harry’s eyes again. “I...I wanted to do it. I was ashamed of myself for being so forceful about it. I didn’t even ask; I just _took_ ,” he said, with a tone of distaste.

“I liked it,” Harry heard himself immediately reply, his voice deep and throaty.

Ron’s gaze on him sharpened, and his lips slowly curved into a slightly predatory smile. The arms around Harry tightened, pulling him closer to press against Ron firmly. Ron’s hands slipped down to Harry’s arse, pushing his pelvis forward, and he rocked his hips experimentally. Harry’s eyes sank shut, and he whimpered.

“You _do_ like it, don’t you?” Ron said lustfully, with a note of wonder.

Harry made a small desperate noise, already far beyond words. Ron thrust again, and Harry moaned loudly, blindly seeking out Ron’s lips. His mouth locked with Ron’s in a scorching kiss. 

“More,” he mumbled, moments later, fumbling with Ron’s clothing, which seemed to have a ridiculous amount of buttons and zippers.

“More,” agreed Ron, tugging Harry’s t-shirt over his head and wrestling with his belt.

Ron cast Protection and Privacy Charms before they completely lost control. “I want to hear you shout my name again,” he growled. “And this time, you’re going to be fucking _me_ when you do it.”

“Fuck, yes,” Harry gasped, as they fell back onto Ron’s bed in a tangle of limbs.

***

Floors beneath them, the Burrow’s little party was cranking up yet another notch. The Wireless was blaring out a bizarre mix of new and old songs as witches and wizards all over Britain owled WWN with requests. 

Upstairs, neither Harry nor Ron noted the noise.

***

Harry was dizzy with the rush of lying under Ron’s warm weight again; this time, skin to skin. Despite his earlier hasty fumbling, Ron was now demonstrating a remarkable restraint. A frustrating, teasing, thrilling control. Though their kisses were deep and passionate, Ron was barely moving against him, rocking his hips slowly, rubbing his cock lightly against Harry’s, just enough to tantalise him but not enough to satisfy his building need.

Another minute ticked by. Harry kissed Ron hungrily, trying to convey without words how much he needed Ron _right now_ , before giving in and grabbing Ron’s hips to thrust up hard against him. Ron gasped and quivered, but the gasp turned into a soft, breathless chuckle. He sat back on his heels and smiled down at Harry’s flushed, furious face.

“Nuh uh,” Ron said gently. “Romania was good, but I want this time to last a bit longer.”

“Can’t we do this now, and worry about longer later?” Harry whined.

“We could,” Ron agreed, trailing a fingertip down Harry’s abdomen.

Harry felt his cock jump as that fingertip drew a slow circle around the base of it. His heart thudded madly.

“You’re killing me,” he rasped hoarsely, when Ron traced up the vein on the underside.

Ron smiled and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock loosely and stroked once, barely brushing the skin. Harry yelped and his hips bucked. The pad of Ron’s thumb rubbed across the head in a circular motion, smearing the weeping pre come. It was too much.

“Please...” Harry begged, barely above a whisper.

Ron’s self control seemed to have reached its limit. All it took was that one, urgent plea.

With a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr, Ron grabbed Harry’s wrists firmly, pinning them above Harry’s head. Harry groaned, closed his hot mouth over Ron’s, and kissed him fiercely as they thrust against each other. 

Drunk on _ţuică_ , sex with Ron had been like an amazingly vivid wet dream; incredibly erotic but somehow unreal. And when the morning came and Harry was sober again, his recall of the event was patchy; a collection of sense-memories loosely connected.

 _This_ was so much more intense, Harry realised. There was no blurry film of alcohol to blunt his senses and swathe him in confusion. This was _real_. This was Ron wanting him, Ron lavishing attention on him and him alone. And not because he was missing Hermione or too drunk to see straight, but because Ron wanted _him_ , needed _him_ , wanted to take him and hold him and fuck him and own him.

“Merlin...you look so...” Ron breathed raggedly, trailing off. Though he didn’t finish, Harry agreed, looking up into Ron’s face, trying to memorise the expression etched on his features; raw, wild, abandoned.

A gentle pulse like a heartbeat in his abdomen was all the warning Harry got before his body arched up against Ron, bowed between Ron’s restraining hands and urgently pistoning hips. He didn’t hold back his cries this time. Distantly, he heard Ron swear and felt clumsy kisses pressed against his cheek as Ron moved faster still, his fingers biting into Harry’s wrists.

“Ron...” Harry moaned against his ear.

Ron’s body jerked violently, and he came with a shout.

***

In the rest of the house, Molly and Arthur had long since disappeared off to their own room, the twins had just got Hermione to agree to a game of no-holds-barred Truth or Dare (and were grinning like Cheshire Cats) and Bill was wishing he’d thought to bring his camera.

***

Harry awoke early the next morning wrapped up in Ron’s arms. He could hear the miserable moans of Fred and George echoing up from the bathroom, and a crankier than usual Molly scolding them for their foolishness. 

Voldemort was dead, they were all alive, and Harry had made Ron shout _his_ name last night.

Harry decided that this new, topsy-turvy world was pretty darn good, snuggled in closer to Ron, and smiled.


End file.
